A Noun

Chapter one: Ice Cube

Ice /'ĪS/
noun
1. the solid form of water, produced by freezing; frozen water.

It swam in my glass after I had put it inside the cool cup wrapped with a screen of condensation, entrapping it in its dungeon of tap water.

Its smooth glide in the water soon came to a gradual halt. It just sat, slowly dying in the cool water, for it could have survived if it hadn't been taken from the white tray it had once been transformed into its frozen state while in the freezer only moments ago.

If it had a voice, it may have screamed or wailed; but it was drowning. Its voice would be garbled with the icy water filling its lungs, destroying the poor little thing further.

For only if it could have- "Honey, eat your dinner." My mother interrupted my thinking.

I still stared at the little ice cube though. It slowly shrank and drowned further as I ate, and my parents spoke. My brother was talking about the girl he started dating too.

It triggered the question I knew would be coming from my parents.

My red-headed father smiled hopefully at me from across the table as I still watched the helpless ice cube diminish.

"Are there any boys I should be worried about?" He asked me, all while trying to be sly about it.

He never had been very sly.

Before I could say 'absolutely not', my brother spoke with a snicker in his voice that only just dropped three years ago. "Dylan thinks she's into girls"

I rolled my eyes as my parents took him seriously. I had nothing wrong with people being gay, but I was straight. He and his friend Dylan always thought it was funny to joke about people's sexuality.

Dad cleared his throat from across the dinner table where he was sitting next to my Mom. Mom looked like she was about to hold my face or come hug me.

"Well, I um." He stuttered while trying to be supportive. "Your mom and I support you if there's any girls or guys or whatever they identify as."

I buried my head in my hands. I didn't have an interest in anyone. Nor did I ever want to speak about my love life. Not that I had one, but I was just waiting for fictional characters to exist.

My life was average. My parents both had decent jobs and they provided a good life for my older brother and I. They were putting my brother through college and would be doing the same for me in the coming year. They gave us a nice house and good clothes. They supported my brother through many sports and high school clubs.

They were good parents.

And I wasn't rebellious. I didn't drink or do drugs or smoke. I never liked to leave the house much, really. I never had many friends. Just a few people whom I was comfortable sitting with during classes or during lunch at school.

Some may see me as bland, but I felt I was alright.

My Dad always said I was a clever girl. Too smart for my own good sometimes.

My grandpa had once told me I was a steaming cup of coffee in a world of water. No one understood much about me. My own family didn't understand me often.

I enjoyed the hunt for more knowledge. My grand father had been an anthropologist. My dad and him used to be close when he was younger until my grandpa and him had a big fight and we never visited much. My father gave a clear explanation of what anthropologists called "dare to know." I always took risks to know more. When I was six, I enjoyed trying and hurt myself to know how it felt. I would jam my fingers in the door or burn myself on the stove to understand the feeling and how the process at the hospital worked.